Down on Love Read online

  And then I thought of getting it all out somehow. I wanted to turn to my friends, but then I realized I didn’t have any more friends. Lucifer, master of isolation, had taken care of that. So—ta da!—here is my blog. I’m going to use it to untangle my thoughts about this most recent failed relationship. It’s free, which is more than can be said about a therapist, after all.

  He leaned back in his desk chair. Poor George. He’d had no idea. She was such a good kid; she shouldn’t have been put through something like that. Then he stopped himself. Not a kid. She’d said as much, the other day, and she was right.

  He followed a link to her “Rules” page.

  Hey, it’s called Down on Love—pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it? I’ll talk about other things, as well, I suppose, but this will be mostly about crappy relationships. Here are the rules and guidelines I have just pulled out of my butt (and are therefore subject to change as occasion demands):

  - True to the blog name, I will be down on love. At all times.

  I am firmly against dating, romance, and other stupid activities associated with the myth of finding one’s soul mate.

  - I will share my thoughts about my last car crash of a relationship honestly. But why should I have all the fun? You are welcome to write in and share your disasters as well. If your tales of woe are not unbelievably offensive, you just might see them here. In other words, if you too are down on love, join in. (Names will be changed to protect the douchey. Posts will be moderated, because this is my game and my rules. Comments will not be moderated, so knock yourself out expressing your opinion. However, some comments may be deleted if they’re just plain evil. See “douchey,” above.)

  - This is not a dating service. If you are looking for others to hook up with, go somewhere else, like Plenty of Fish or Match.com. (Better yet, I’d recommend you try hunting for your significant other offline, if you want to find out what the other person is really like. Trust. But if you prefer staring at other people’s photos while you sit around in your underwear, one hand in your . . . Cheetos bag . . . have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

  - Since my breakup, I have been celibate. This is not by choice, but by necessity, and by default. I’m not looking for a new boyfriend, and I’m not looking for hookups. My neo-virginity holds firm (so to speak). This is not an invitation to try to break me down. So don’t. You won’t get anywhere. And do not consider that a challenge. You’ll be wasting your time. I mean it. (I can’t believe I had to put this in here, but some idiots have already approached me, and it’s nasty and unwelcome and cut it out. See “douchey,” above.)

  - I will occasionally offer relationship advice if you ask for it. However, you should be aware that my advice will always, always culminate in a highly biased directive to dump his/her ass. I shall not waver in this. So if you write in, be prepared.

  - If you have a serious problem (abuse, etc.), keep in mind I am not a professional and so am not qualified to help you with it. I will always steer you toward getting professional help. I do this because I truly care about your well-being.

  - Speaking of deadly serious stuff, if you haven’t tweaked to it already, this blog is for laughs, peeps. Visit with the intention of getting shit off your chest and going away lighter for it.

  Now, let the bitchin’ begin!

  Casey knew he had to get some work done—head out to the pumpkin patch, maybe do some weeding himself instead of leaving it to the farmhands. He hadn’t gotten his hands dirty in . . . okay, half a day. But it already seemed too long. Still, he couldn’t tear himself away from George’s blog; it was like an online guide to her recent history, not to mention her emotional state at the moment. He sampled a couple “DoLlies in Need” letters, just to see if George made good on her promise to tell everyone who wrote in to dump their boyfriend or girlfriend. She did.

  Dear George,

  I caught my boyfriend flirting with my cousin at our grandmother’s funeral. What should I do?

  Love and stuff,

  Confused

  Dear Oblivious,

  First, my condolences on the loss of your grandmother. Second, dump his ass.

  Platonic smooches,

  George

  Dear George,

  I hav a ? 4 U. I rly liek this gurl and I think she lieks me sum, but Im not shure. How can I find out? I want 2 ask her 2 a dance soon.

  <3,

  Worried

  Dear LOLcat or Prince, but probably LOLcat,

  I have no idea what you’re saying. If I read you right, then my advice is to go ahead and ask her out. But don’t be surprised if she dumps your ass. Oh, wait. I should respond in your native tongue:

  Dear LOLcat,

  WTF? Srsly? Yr ded.

  Kthxbai,

  George

  “Case? Casey? Yo.”

  Casey jumped. Elliot was in the doorway of his office, watching him with concern.

  “You all right, boss?”

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You look a little funny.”

  “Yeah, well, you always look a little funny. You don’t hear me pointing it out all the time, do you? What do you need, El?”

  “Nothing. Jill’s going to make a run to the hardware store, then get some takeout for everybody. Just wondering if you wanted anything from Nora’s.”

  Casey glanced at the clock at the top of the screen. Okay, now this was getting ridiculous; it was late morning, and he was still sitting there reading. He passed on lunch and, when Elliot left, fully intended to follow him out the door and do some work. But before he forced himself out of his chair, he did a little more hunting on the blog. He was still trying to figure out what had Ray’s boxers in a bunch.

  Then he saw a post from yesterday, right at the top of the main page:

  So okay. Everybody who reads DoL regularly knows I have been spending the summer with my sister and her family, back in my hometown in New York State. (If you don’t know the details, check the archives.) That’s why my entries have been fewer and farther between—my niece’s diapers wait for no blogger.

  Anyway, it’s been . . . um . . . fun? And challenging. And definitely interesting, in a lot of different ways. I’ve been reconnecting with people I haven’t seen in a long time and dealing with memories I’ve kept buried for ages. Nothing bad or anything. Just weird.

  And there’s one memory I’ve been grappling with that I’m pretty sure would be of interest to you. Hey, if not, off you go to Gawker, okay? Okay. For those of you who are sticking around, here ’tis.

  I was in love once. No, not Lucifer. I mean really, truly, properly in love, without talking myself into it, like with Lucifer. But I was so young, I thought it was just a crush. Well, not at the time. At the time I knew I was in love. But then age, and maturity, and insecurity, and all those things that make you second-guess yourself (and make you doubt your feelings) took over, and I convinced myself that what I felt for this guy—let’s call him The One—was “just” a crush.

  (Is this making any sense? I should probably mention it’s really late, I haven’t gotten any sleep in forever, and I’ve been out drinking tonight. But I’m fine! I swear!)

  When I was young, I admired this guy, Mr. One, more than anyone else I knew. He was poised, he was confident, he was gorgeous. Plus he was giving. And kind. And thoughtful. Of course, he never noticed me. No, that’s not quite true. He saw me as a little kid. Even when I grew up, sprouted boobs, and finally left the jailbait age range, he didn’t see me any differently.

  Until one day. (Don’t all great, tragic stories take a turn like this?) So what happened? Thought you’d never ask.

  I graduated from high school. There were parties. He was home from college. He happened to stop by my party. (Hey, it’s a small town. People do that.) We ended up alone for a minute and . . . he kissed me. Really kissed me. Not a “congratulations” peck on the cheek, but a real, honest to goodness, knock my drawers off, mindblower of a kiss. The like of which I hadn’t experie
nced before and haven’t since. (Take that, Lucifer, you cold fish. I mean really, my ex was the world’s worst kisser. But I digress.)

  So. Happily ever after—that’s what happens next, right? Not exactly.

  There we were, alone in the dark. Nobody around. Nothing stopping him. I certainly wasn’t, that’s for sure. And what happens? Dude backs off. Freaks out. He’s horrified at his behavior, apologizes, and won’t touch me again. I even threw myself at him—made it quite clear I was his for the taking. Nothing doing. He was done with me.

  Why? He said it was because I was his friend’s sister. Because I was too young. (I was eighteen, thank you very much—I knew what I wanted. Nobody was forcing anybody.) Because he was wrong for me. Because . . . all sorts of things. You can guess.

  He broke my heart, crushed my dreams, trashed my self-confidence. And I cried till I thought I’d broken my tear ducts. (Can you break tear ducts? If you can, I was pretty sure I broke mine.) Didn’t matter—the end of the story is he went back to college and then moved away. I went to college—not his, a different one (I always thought Felicity Porter was a moron)—and then moved away and didn’t come back. I never told anybody what happened, and I never saw him again.

  Till now.

  Now we’re in the same place again for the first time in ages. We’re both way older—both adults. Now our two-year age difference is nothing. He’s different, I’m different. And yet we’re still kind of the same. How do I feel about him now? What do I think when I see him? What does my stomach do when he’s around? I’m afraid to answer those questions, but I’ll bet you can pretty much guess. Let’s just say this is messing me up, DoLlies. I thought I had it all figured out. You know me—I did have it all figured out. I mean, I do. Dammit.

  Maybe I should have stopped at two beers last night.

  What happens now? I have no idea. Just . . . stay tuned, kids. I’ll get back to you.

  P.S.: I almost forgot to include this little tidbit. I propositioned him again tonight (cf. the beer thing). He turned me down. Again. Of course, this time it was because I’d had too much to drink. At least, I think that was the reason. I hope so, anyway. Because if it wasn’t, I’m gonna develop a complex.

  Shiiiiit.

  Casey collapsed into his chair, pushing it back as if to get as far away from the computer screen as possible. Finding out what was going on in George’s head was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

  He took a quick look at the comments. They were filled with replies from the regular readers, including a few declarations of “First to post!” (which weren’t first), comments about how George sounded very different in this entry (and not just because she had been drunk-blogging), and cries of “Dump his ass!” alternating with commands to “Jump him and get yours” and “Go for it.” Plus there were a few along the lines of “If you’re more open to the idea of a relationship now, can I have a shot at you?”

  At that point Casey almost bailed out of the blog altogether, but then he read the next comment in the list. Using her real name, Jill had written, “Is this the guy you were talking about—the one with the killer moves? George, who is it? Call me. We’ll talk.” And even worse, one from Mrs. Preston: “Are you talking about Casey, dear?”

  That one went off like a depth charge—Casey kept it together, barely moved a muscle, and if anyone had been with him, they’d never have noticed the massive devastation that had occurred just below the calm surface. “Good guess, Mrs. P,” he muttered under his breath. “I always knew you could have a second career as a detective. Or a psychic.”

  Good grief. He was talking to himself.

  Then, suddenly, Elliot was there, marching right into his office instead of hovering in the doorway the way he usually did. Casey flailed around with the mouse until he managed to make George’s blog disappear, just in case Elliot noticed it and started asking questions he didn’t want to answer.

  “What?” Casey snapped, making El stop short, surprised. Casey felt himself flush, embarrassed, and was grateful Elliot didn’t stoop to making an Internet porn joke.

  Instead, his employee lifted a white bag into view. “I know you said you didn’t want anything, but Nora sent you some fries anyway.” He put the bag on Casey’s desk and backed away cautiously.

  Casey sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, El. Thanks. Really.”

  “You done working? Everybody else is breaking for lunch now.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I’d love to eat with you guys. I’ll just be a minute.”

  He smiled at his employee to reassure him and opened the paper bag. El nodded and left. When he was gone, Casey stuffed a few fries into his mouth and went back to the site. He needed to see if George had answered Jill or Mrs. P. But when the blog reloaded, the top entry was a guest post from “Rastagirl,” which George called a Tale of Woe, from three days ago:

  Okay gang, this one is short but ugly. My ex could only get turned on by watching us have sex in the mirrored doors of his bedroom closet. Don’t tell me I should be turned on by this. I tried to get into it, until I realized he wasn’t watching us. He was just watching himself ...

  What the . . . Where was George’s intimate confession? He clicked here and there on the blog as if he could bring it back by passing the cursor over the site like a magic wand. But no matter what he did, the missing post never reappeared.

  Casey sat and stared at Down on Love for several seconds, as if that would accomplish anything. No surprise—nothing happened, even when he refreshed the page. The entry was gone.

  Chapter 13

  George groaned for what felt like the hundredth time since her eyes had cracked open that morning, but this time with a bit of relief. Deleted. Vaporized, vanished, disappeared. And not a second too soon. Well, several hours too late, she was sure, but at least it was gone now.

  What had she been thinking? Well. She hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem. She’d drunk-posted on her blog in the middle of the night, announcing to the world she had been in love with Casey Bowen years ago. Okay, she’d kept it anonymous, but did it matter? People in town had seen it. And commented on it.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. She meant herself, not the commenters. She couldn’t blame them—of course they’d want to weigh in, guess who she was talking about. And—oh God—Mrs. Preston had figured it out. How? Well, it was Sherlock Preston. If anybody was going to figure it out, she would—and she had. Now anybody who read her blog between dark o’clock, when she’d clicked the “publish” button, and late this morning—oh God, okay, closer to noon—when she’d realized what she’d done and scrambled to delete it, now knew as well.

  Shiiiiit.

  Wiping it out on her blog didn’t mean it was going to be forgotten, but the alternative—leaving it there—was out of the question. All she could do was hope that, of the people who’d actually seen it (she couldn’t bring herself to look at the actual stats), the number of Marsden residents was a very small percentage. And they wouldn’t care enough to mention it to anybody else. It could happen, right?

  . . . Oh God, she was screwed.

  George shuffled into the kitchen, dumped the remnants of her now lukewarm bottle of water into the sink, and pulled a soda out of the fridge. Caffeine and sugar would fix what three bottles of water hadn’t, she was sure. At least, she desperately hoped so. She rooted around in the cupboards for some saltines as well. She emerged with her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk and nearly bumped into Jaz, who was still moving stiffly, but was recovering a little more of her usual grace every day.

  “You unemployed or something?” Jaz asked, leaning against the sink.

  “Mmph,” said the chipmunk. Once she’d managed to swallow, she said, in a cottony tone, “Your wife has got to stop stealing your kid.”

  “Well, you weren’t exactly functional enough for nanny duty this morning, were you?”

  “I could’ve handled it.”

  “Sure you could.” Jaz chuckled as she started o
pening cupboards.

  George jumped to help her. “How about some lunch?”

  “I won’t say no.”

  “Where are they?” she asked as she started gathering items for a sandwich. “It’s awfully quiet around here.”

  “At the park. Sera swears Amelia loves the swings, but she just dangles there, looking bored.”

  “She’s not creating any pottery, Jaz.”

  Her sister-in-law sighed. “She will,” she said, with what sounded more like hope than certainty. “Just give her some time.”

  “I’m supposed to be taking care of the baby.”

  “It really helps that you’re just . . . here, you know? You don’t have to be doing anything specific. But I’m really loving the condition of the house lately. You can clean as long as you want, as often as you want.”